“Lock Box 43, Santa Fe,” he repeated, thoughtfully, “and that was all?”
“That was all; but perhaps the man didn’t want his name known all over the country, in connection with this tragedy here,” suggested his host.
“That is so,” Geoffrey returned, brightening, but he said to himself that he would yet know who had held that post-office box in Santa Fe twenty years ago, if it was in the power of man to discover it.
“Has he ever been here since?” he asked, after a pause.
“Yes, twice; and the last time he remarked, ‘I shall never see the child again—I believe he is dead.’”
“What was the date of his last visit?”
“It was about ten years ago, and I have never seen him since. I am very sorry, Mr. Huntress, that I can tell you no more,” said the man, evidently feeling for his visitor’s discomfiture, “and it really must be a great trial to you to have such a mystery enshrouding your parentage.”
“It is, but—it must be solved sooner or later,” Geoffrey said, resolutely.
He arose to go as he spoke, thanked the farmer heartily for his kindness in telling what he wished to know, then mounted his horse and rode back toward the town, greatly perplexed and somewhat disheartened.
“Lock Box 43 is a slender thread to lead to much, but I’ll follow it until it breaks,” he said to himself, as he went on his way.